Quick Author's Notes: Just FYI, I have full author's notes for every chapter on AO3. I don't want to bloat my word count here by adding a bunch of extra, so this is probably my first and only A/N on FFN. Check out my AO3 (still Rynadine) if you'd like to see some extras. Also, I respond to every comment there. Have a good day!

"So," Nick began, "d'you wanna hear a joke, Carrots?"

Judy, eyeing the street-level fox from inside the squad car, gave him a 'please do not' look. Nick had a feeling that look was reserved for him because she diligently refused to answer. His grin widened.

"Why did the police officer arrest the duck?"

Nick's tail wagged with obvious glee as she still didn't answer, and his pleased-with-himself smile set itself to maximum smug.

"He was selling quack!"

A groan escaped the rabbit. Nick's jokes had devolved from bad-funny to just bad over the course of his training at the academy, and she couldn't help but feel like they were only going to get worse. She was right, of course, but that didn't lessen the dread.

"Just… be careful, okay? Can't lose my partner on day one of our first case."

"I'll be fiiiine, Carrots. Gonna figure out where we stand first, then ask about the case," he reassured with a thumbs-up and wink.

"Fine," huh? Sure are getting a lot of mileage out of that word today, Slick.

Judy didn't quite look convinced. "I… alright. I trust you."

Flinching almost instinctively, Nick felt a few pangs of disappointment in himself for not confessing his anxiety. Although he expected the feeling to pass quickly, each fleck of guilt stuck to his conscious like darts on a dartboard.

You'll tell her soon. One step at a time.

The rabbit gave him another evaluative once-over before turning her attention back to the wheel of the squad car, with a deflective smirk growing on her muzzle. "I'll pick you up in an hour or so, Nick. Don't get into too much trouble," she said, expecting him to return with a quip.

To her surprise, Nick nodded genuinely. "I won't. Seeya soon, Officer Fluff."

She gave him a hesitant wave before driving off, which he eagerly mirrored.

After a few more moments of hesitation, Nick looked pensively towards the double-doors of Finnick's van, paws in his pockets. He didn't doubt Finnick would be mad, but an increasingly-less-buried part of him held out hope that the two foxes could stay friends, or at the very least, reconcile. Anxiety began to swirl in his mind, but he forcefully kicked it back down - pushing it away was only a temporary solution, and he had a feeling that if things went poorly a panic attack might surface. His walk over to the van was swift and purposeful.

Letting out a sigh, he gently knocked twice on the doors. A beat of silence passed before Nick could hear a muffled "who is it!?" from inside. Expecting to see (or violently meet) the business end of a baseball bat bursting through the back of the van, Nick patiently waited.

Nothing happened.

A little put off, Nick cupped a paw to his muzzle and whispered, "It's… Offi- I mean, it's Nick, Finn. I just want to talk."

Light swearing could be heard from the vehicle, followed by a pregnant pause. Just barely, Nick heard a muttered "come in," seep through the doors.

Nick opened the back slowly, expecting the usual telltale clink of the door hitting alcohol bottles sprawled carelessly across the back. No such sound came, and light spilled into the lowly-lit van.

Inside, Finnick sat cross-legged on a small blue mat, his mouth drawn into a taut, wire-like line. A dim cigarette hung tightly from the edge of his lips, but his clothes were surprisingly pristine. After adjusting to the light, he eyed Nick critically, his gaze hitching on the polished police badge affixed to the red fox's chest. The taller tod gulped nervously, ears flicking back as his eyes avoided the stare of the fennec.

"Look, I know tha—" Nick started, quickly cutting himself off as Finnick raised a paw in a universal 'shut-the-hell-up' sort of gesture.

"Save it, Wilde," he said, clipping each word in a cold, percussive staccato.

Nick winced, blindsided by the fennec's detached tone.

Where's the trademarked anger and fury? Where are the only half-joking threats?

The last thing he'd been expecting was to be given the cold shoulder. A stillness hung in the air that made Nick's fur prickle. It hadn't even been a full minute, and he already felt the unnerved anxiety start to bubble back up. Finnick's ambiguous expression of consideration only intensified as the heavy silence went on.

At last, when Nick could almost feel the dread eating at his insides, the diminutive fox spoke.

"What's it like?" An uncharacteristic softness filed his normally gruff voice.

Nick, now thoroughly dumbstruck, soundlessly worked his mouth in a futile attempt to speak. He managed an "I… what?" before shamefully lapsing back into confused silence.

Finnick gave him a level look, unperturbed. "How's bein' legit?"

"What?" he repeated, "Finnick, I— it's fine, I guess. Are we good? Or—"

The fennec made the 'shut-up' gesture again, and Nick felt his bewilderment beginning to shift to anger.

Why is he being so difficult!?

Finnick didn't even blink as Nick's eyes narrowed, but his eyes did flick to the red vulpine's tail as it irritatedly lashed back and forth. Emotional whiplash, he knew, was not an excellent conversation-starter.

"Just wanna know," he placated, rolling the dim cigarette in his mouth.

Anger circled back to confusion; Nick took a deep breath, centering himself.

He just wants to know about you. You haven't talked to him in months. Maybe he isn't Carrots, but you could do with a little more honesty in your life, Slick.

"I… love it. Really, I do," he began wistfully, his words more of a stream of consciousness than the usual carefully calculated rhetoric, "and… it's good. I dunno how else to explain it; being a cop makes me feel like I'm good."

Finnick nodded knowingly, his eyebrows knitting together. Any of Nick's lingering nervousness fell away at the subtle encouragement.

"Makes ya feel good, or makes ya feel like a good mammal?" Finnick prodded surprisingly softly.

Nick contemplated it for only a moment. "Both. I wouldn't trade it for the world…" he trailed off.

"But?" the fennec supplied.

Averting his eyes from the smaller fox, Nick paused again to collect his thoughts.

Say it.

Nick mumbled something too quiet to be coherent, then cleared his throat, raising one paw in a three-fingered sign. Finnick's eyes widened, but only slightly; the Junior Ranger Scouts sign was a sort of pact between them which signified total and complete honesty, no teasing allowed. Both foxes had used it several times during their hustling days.

"But sometimes it feels like I'm not enough," he confessed quietly, "and that scares me. I'm Zootopia's first fox cop — from any subspecies of fox — so I should be setting an example! I thought I wanted my first case soon, so I could prove myself, but now that it's here I can't stop thinking about how I'm screwing it up," he said despondently, dropping his head to his paws.

A moment of quiet passed before Finnick sat up, plodding over to Nick and putting a comforting paw on his shoulder.

"And?" Finnick supplied again. A pause.

Keep going.

"It's stupid," Nick finally grumbled, "but sometimes it feels like I'm not even an officer. Like this is some stupid costume; a quarter of the precinct won't even talk to me, and another half constantly give me looks like I'm a dirty con-fox about to go savage," he mumbled, diligently inspecting the tips of his claws.

"Wilde, ya lived with the bias against foxes for twenty years, and I was with ya for most of those," Finnick said, real curiosity inflecting his voice, "so what's different now?"

Obviously being a cop, but...

Nick considered it, trying to reach one of the core reasons for his anxieties. The conclusion he reached came with startling force and clarity.

You know exactly why it's different. Tell him.

"Because now I want to be somebody, Finn. I don't want to be Slick Nick, stereotypical warehouse-living former con-fox extraordinaire."

He paused, finally bringing his head out of his paws.

"I want to be Officer Wilde."

Nick let the statement echo inside the van, each letter of each word dripping with heartfelt sincerity. He took a few deep breaths, the catharsis of speaking it aloud rolling over him in a gentle wave.

Finnick nodded again, patting his shoulder consolingly. "I figured. I... forgive ya, Wilde. For leaving."

His eyes snapping up to meet the fennec, Nick's mouth hung open.

It can't be that easy.

"You're kidding, right? I left you —practically without warning — nine months ago and haven't talked to you since," Nick protested half-heartedly, convinced it was a hustle. Natural skepticism didn't let him think that their reconciliation could go so well, and the doubt kneaded into his voice made it clear.

Finnick shuffled self-consciously, throwing Nick off even further, and the cigarette hung a little looser from his mouth. "Maybe ya ain't the only one tryin' ta change," he said quietly.

Nick's mouth dropped open even further; Finnick chuckled lightly, moving back towards the blue mat.

"Here: why don't we play some cards? No cheating, for either of us," he suggested, a small smile gracing his muzzle. Standing up, Finnick turned around to rummage for a deck in the front seat.

Utterly derailed by the non sequitur, the taller vulpine nodded with slowly increasing tempo. It didn't seem proper to refuse after everything that'd just been confessed. Still, cards felt like an odd solution to his self-doubt, and frankly Nick felt like there was more that he wanted to say.

Finnick, having swiftly shuffled the deck, wordlessly dealt both foxes a two-card hand, leaving the deck in the middle. Blackjack was practically a second language to both foxes, and Nick allowed himself the small comfort provided by the familiarity.

They played in relative silence, only broken by a quiet "hit," "stand," or low noise of discontent. For what might've been the first time in Nicholas Wilde's life, he had absolutely no idea what to say.

After a few more muted rounds, Finnick snickered soundlessly. When he spoke, Nick flinched, startled by the break in quiet.

"Ya know what happened after ya left?"

"How am I supposed t—"

"It was ret… rheco… rh— just shut up for a bit, a'ight!?" he growled playfully. Confused at the return of their banter, Nick allowed himself a hesitant smile. The moment sat for a few seconds longer before Finnick's muzzle dropped back into a thoughtful frown.

"Had to go get myself a real job, after ya went to police school or whatever. Little store down in Sahara Square, run by this old jackal who didn't come 'round a lot…" he started. It sounded like he forced out each word; not in the sense he was lying, but rather that he was forcing himself to be honest. Nick sympathized almost immediately.

"But?" the other fox gently parroted the support from earlier.

Finnick looked away, and total shame filled his muzzle. "Came in some days drunk, or smoking, or just plain angry."

He paused for a moment, ears folding back.

"I was so angry, all the time. Some days I wouldn't even know why. It affected my work, too, and how the customers saw the store. Kept blaming you, just stewin' in my own problems. Went to drink to get less angry, but it only made everythin' worse," he said softly, pausing to clear his throat.

Nick nodded encouragingly. Anger problems were something he was aware the fennec had been dealing for decades, but he'd never asked out of a respect for privacy. In turn, Finnick had never opened up — until now, apparently.

"I think I was… jealous of how ya got out. We spent a buncha years together where it was just one hustle after another, nothin'... long-term. An' then one day, outta the goddamn blue, ya just get picked up and whisked away to somethin' better," he complained.

"It isn't perfect," Nick interjected quietly.

"No, it ain't. It ain't ever gonna be perfect for ya, Wilde. But it's better."

"'Better' is a low bar to stride for, Finn. I want it — I want me —to be good, not just 'better' than hustling."

Finnick's expression darkened, but he quickly recentered himself through what Nick assumed was a breathing technique.

"Sometimes 'better' is all ya gonna get," he said, pointing an accusatory digit right between Nick's eyes, "and you gotta go through 'better' to get to 'good.'"

A quiet fell over the van as the red fox gave his friend a strange look, filing away his surprisingly insightful advice for a later date. Still, something nagged at him; introspection was hardly Finnick's strong suit, and that didn't seem liable to change in of less than a year.

What's really going on?

"Yeah. Okay, yeah, you're right. Things are getting better for me. I get it," he said, pausing to let his words sink in.

"But when did you get so… supportive, Finnick? Not that I'm complaining, but this isn't like you."

Finnick looked away again, his tail going completely still.

"Like I said, I got a job when ya left, and at the beginning it ain't great. One day boss comes up to me and tells me 'you gotta stop this, else I gotta fire ya,'" he admitted, rolling the dimly-lit cigarette in his mouth.

"He refers me to this shrink a few blocks away, offers to pay for my first session," he said, a little less forced than before. The umber-brown of his eyes softened. "Real nice mammal, that jackal. Anyways, I go ahead and go — cause why not, right? It's free. Mammal doesn't refuse somethin' free from a friend."

Nick made a low noise of agreement, feeling peppered pangs of disappointment that he wasn't there to help. Even if they were on opposing sides of the law, Finnick had been practically his brother for a little less than twenty years. Although fully willing to give up everything else from his criminal history, the kinship with Finnick was one of the few snippets Nick was more than willing to hold on to, so long as their interaction remained legal.

"So I walk through the door — it's a place for small mammals, by the way — and get whooshed off into this little room with a wolf lady. It ain't like the movies, with a stupid brown couch and mammals askin' 'howdya feel?' and all that. It was real personal. I trust ya, but it's real personal, y'know?"

Nick nodded, smiling genuinely. It didn't feel right to interrupt him at this point, but he had to express his encouragement somehow.

Finnick played with his paws, rolling a small coin (Nick offhandedly wondered when he'd picked it up) between each digit. His eyes raised to the red tod with a rare sight — a complete and honest smile. The kind that can't be acted, for a hustle or otherwise.

"And it works. Been goin' just about every week. I felt shitty — I was shitty — and now I'm gettin' better. Not nearly as angry, and one month sober. For cigarettes and alcohol."

Nick wasn't sure whether to comment on the fact that the fennec was currently smoking, but it seemed like a fair question. Pointing towards Finnick's mouth, he asked, "so why are you..."

Finnick soundlessly took it out of his mouth, passing it to Nick. Upon closer inspection, it wasn't a cigarette at all; The "cigarette" was actually a small plastic rod with a cluster of cheap orange-yellow LEDs at the end. They shined with a dim glow, just enough to make it look real from even a small distance.

"It's fake. Supposed to help me keep away from the real thing," Finnick clarified, shifting from one paw to another.

"I— Finnick," Nick started, chest swelling with pride, "this— you are incredible. I… I'm proud of you. Really."

Finnick, totally unused to praise, allowed his grin to widen even further. His chest puffed out with hard-earned confidence. "It ain't easy — never was, never will be — but I'm workin' towards it. Think 'bout that next time ya feeling down, brother."

Nicholas Wilde is not a crier.

Still, his lower lip wobbled dangerously as he passed the fake cigarette back to Finnick. "We good?" he whispered hopefully, already knowing the answer.

The fennec gave him a wink filled with playful camaraderie. "Speak for yo'self, Wilde."

He paused, beginning to pick up the cards scattered around the van.

"Yeah. Yeah, we good, you crazy kit."

Both foxes let the moment sit for a little longer, basking in the simple contentment of rekindled friendship. Despite the silence, Finnick looked like he was trying to say something. Nick rolled one paw in a 'go-ahead' motion.

"Ya know ya should tell bunny cop 'bout ya problems," he finally stated, disdainfully speaking the word 'problems' the same way any other mammal might say 'tax evasion'. Nick knew it came from a place of concern rather than mockery, but he still guiltily played with his claws.

"I know," he said, a rueful sigh escaping him, "I've never been good at being honest. But I'm going to try to tell her. Small steps." It felt right to say it out loud; it was essentially a commitment. His head felt lighter, for the first time that day.

Gotta go through 'better' to get to 'good,' Wilde. One step at a time.

Finnick nodded approvingly. "Nice. You know she wants to help, brother. Has since day one ."

Nick shifted, uncomfortable with talking about his anxiety so straightforwardly. "Yeah, I know," he said quietly, "but she's Judy Hopps. She has enough problems — not to say she can't solve them, but still — without worrying about me all the time."

A clear expression of disapproval marred Finnick's muzzle; the solution seemed so simple to him. Unfortunately, the inability to confide in his partner about his nervousness was a mental block, not a logical one.

"It'd be easier for you if ya told her now," he suggested softly, beginning to pick up the cards scattered across the van's floor.

It can wait. Maybe a few days, or after the case. There are smaller steps you should take first.

Predictably, Nick looked away, feeling his stomach twist. "I'll tell her tomorrow, Finn," he mumbled. Whether or not it was a lie, the red fox wasn't sure.

Finnick let out an ambiguous noise, somewhere between an affirmative grunt and an exasperated huff. "Arright," he said, letting a beat of silence pass, "just tell her before ya do anything… big."

Immediately, Nick's ears flattened against his head. He let out a mirthless chuckle. "Judy go- I mean, we got our first case today. As partners," he fumbled, trying to ignore the fennec's mixed expression of incredulity and dawning comprehension.

"Wilde," Finnick said icily, "you better tell me you didn't come here just to get help with a case."

Be honest! This is your chance to show him that you're a changed fox!

Nick hung his head, internally noting that his anxiety had started to rise. "I really did want to talk to you," he mumbled, half-lying, "but I need your help, too."

Finnick let out a long and thoughtful sigh, watching the struggling red fox uncertainly. For Nick, each breath was starting to come out a little tighter, and the brief clearheadedness he had felt was beginning to recede into a hazy fog.

It can't end like this! You were just beginning to reconnect, and now you've screwed everything up, you idiot! Aren't you supposed to be charming? Cunning? If you can't even be honest about something this small, how are you going to be a good cop?

"I-I'm sorry, seriously, I did just want to talk, and it was stupid of me to assume that you would want to help, an—" he blathered, feeling the gnawing edges of a panic attack begin to claw at his conscious.

"It's arright!" Finnick shouted over his babbling, waving his paws in a vaguely supportive gesture. There was silence for a moment before Nick's mouth shut with a barely-audible click .

"I'll be honest, it was kind of shitty to know that you came here cause ya wanted something, but I understand where you're comin' from," he placated quickly, "and I believe you, okay? Chill."

Nick let out a long breath, the sudden spike of nervousness lingering in his stomach. "Really?" he managed.

"Yeah," the fennec said, "So what's up?"

Nick held out the dull gold coin, his paws only slightly shaking. If the diminutive fox truly did know the coin's connotations, the rest of his first case would progress much more smoothly — they'd either run out of leads or there would be a clear trail to follow. Somehow, neither thought was comforting.

Finnick turned it over carefully in his paws, squinting slightly as he thumbed over the scratched-in wheel. A worrying paw worked its way behind his head.

"I've seen this, yeah. Mammal in one of my... " — he wouldn't meet Nick's eyes — "...therapy groups likes to paint it when we're relaxing. Artist type, y'know."

...Huh.

Nick wasn't sure what to make of that. Nonetheless, he leaned ever-so-slightly in, intrigued. "Do you think I could meet with them?" he asked, pensiveness beginning to broil in his stomach.

Nodding, Finnick gave the other fox a tentative once-over. "Yeah. Today or tomorrow, come to me after six. Bring your rabbit, too. He's… skittish, sometimes."

Oh, great. When I think of "relaxing activities," being questioned by a cop or two is way up there.

That thought didn't quite reach his mouth. Instead, "Since when was she 'my rabbit,' Finn?" came out, slightly bemused.

Confusion followed by understanding worked its way across Finnick's muzzle, but the resultant emotions quickly developed into a knowing smirk. "Nevermind," he said, smothered laughter working its way into his voice, "How about we play s'more cards?"

Nick hopped back down on the street, giving Finnick a quick goodbye and a friendly wave before shutting the doors to the van. Their reunion had gone well, all things considered, and the smile on Nick's face as he turned to the horizon proved it.

The afternoon sun hung high in the sky, bathing the fox in gentle warmth. It felt wonderful to get up and stretch after sitting so long in the van, and the pleasant emotional catharsis from his visit was a mentally perfect backdrop. For once, everything felt… quiet. Peaceful, even. The staple pessimism of 'what if I'm not a good cop' or 'what if today's the day everything falls apart' was nowhere to be found, and Nick relished in the respite.

Lazily, he dragged a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket, perching them lightly onto his muzzle as he sat down on the sidewalk. Judy would be back any second now, but in the meantime he didn't see any problem with relaxing a little further.

Of course, as luck would have it, Judy pulled up in the squad car less than a minute later.

His ears didn't so much as twitch when the vehicle's low rumble slowly approached, but his eyes did languidly open.

"Hey, Nick!" she called, poking her head out of the window. One paw was cupped to the side of her face in an effort to amplify the sound, even though the fox was almost close enough for her to whisper. Concerned, she gave him a look clearly meant to ask whether he was okay. He smiled.

"I'm fi- good. I'm good, Carrots."

He paused.

"Wanna hear a joke?"